


change (and belief)

by rightsidethru



Series: Steter Week 2019 [6]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Peter Hale, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Mildly Dubious Consent, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, Steter - Freeform, Steter Week, Steter Week 2019, Stiles Stilinski Accepts The Bite, Werewolf Mates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-07-30 19:48:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20102656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rightsidethru/pseuds/rightsidethru
Summary: Stiles has always gone over and beyond what was necessary when he went into a research binge.Peter may--or may not--end up regretting that.





	change (and belief)

**Author's Note:**

> August 3:  
The Bite Was a Proposal and/or Daddy Kink 
> 
> *
> 
> “Believe something and the Universe is on its way to being changed. Because you've changed, by believing. Once you've changed, other things start to follow. Isn't that the way it works?”  
― Diane Duane, **So You Want to Be a Wizard**

_”The werewolf is neither man nor wolf, but a satanic creatures with the worst qualities of both.”_  
\- Warner Oland

*

The thing was:

With the full moon approaching and Scott’s ability to deal with the new status quo giving a _very_ concrete timeline for Stiles to work with, the teen didn’t truly have the ability—let alone the manpower considering the fact that Scott was worse than useless at research—to fine-tune his searches. Anything and everything about werewolves was devoured in as quickly of a manner as possible.

Moon phases, a true wolf’s pack behavior, mythologies as to how the werewolf curse originated, language shifts and roots behind the name and the various meanings. Stories from various parts of the world—what made a werewolf in that particular region and, sometimes, what was necessary to break the curse. Weaknesses and dangers to look out for, a werewolf’s place in potentially the supernatural community at large (and, fuck, was _that_ an awe-inspiring thing to finally realize—to understand that this was just the beginning and that there was more for Stiles to learn). 

The article that the whiskey-eyed teen had eventually found on bite placement was quickly consumed and then set aside. Nothing important had jumped out at Stiles during the reading: after all, Scott had been bit on his side which, from the information provided to him, just meant that his blood-brother was nothing more than a regular ol’ _beta werewolf_. No special significance came paired with the bite that had healed days ago and, with the daunting task of at least thirty more tabs to go through that night alone, Stiles had read it, retained the knowledge offered, and set it aside as something to know but not that important in the long run.

But it was because of the fact that he’d come across that article that Stiles _knew_ what was actually being offered when Peter Hale offered him the Bite, the pad of a thumb brushing teasingly over the hummingbird-fast pulse of his wrist.

”I like you, Stiles,” the ‘wolf had murmured, lips spreading wide to bare fangs in a grin that would have done the Big Bad Wolf proud.

Stiles wasn’t Little Red Riding Hoodie, though, had never needed a woodsman to come along to save him—that’d been _his_ job between him and Scott ever since the boy had toppled over into him, tears in his eyes at the fact that Jackson had stolen his inhaler _again_. Stiles had always struck fast and hard and dirty, and eventually even the would-be bully had learned to back on and only come wandering by when he was feeling brave.

So the teen said _yes_ when the Alpha brushed his thumb over the fluttering pulse once more, and then all Stiles knew was pain.

*

_Claudia’s loss was still an open, weeping wound that lay between Stiles and the sheriff. She had, once upon a time, been the glue that held the family together—first by the way that she lit up the room, bringing warmth to the rooms of their homes, and then finally by the way that the boy and his father had teamed together to do anything they could to stop the creeping illness that would eventually take her from them. Without Stiles’ mother and Noah’s wife there to bridge the gap that stretched between them… they floundered._

_A month after her loss found Stiles quietly dusting the living room while his father was once more out on call. The rag was constantly washed out every few minutes; when Claudia’s got sick, house chores had been tossed to the wayside when the family became preoccupied with other concerns. It would have killed her—again—to see the rooms that Claudia had so lovingly decorated become so disarrayed. So with his father gone, the funeral done and over with, and his homework already ploughed through with the determination that came paired with the fact that Stiles Did Not Want to Think, the only thing left to the boy was to put the house in order._

_He paused when he came to his parents’ wedding photo that lay framed on the mantel, fingers curling tight around the dirty cloth that lay pressed against the palm of his hand. Claudia and Noah looked… so happy, so carefree, so **loving**… in the photograph, and Stiles only belatedly realized another layer of loss that lay between him and his father now that Claudia was gone. Thought of the gentle touches that his parents exchanged when they believed their son unaware, the way that Noah’s blue eyes lit up the moment he came into the house and saw his wife, the smile softening into something fonder but less world-shattering when he caught sight of his son, as well._

_I want that one day, Stiles whispered to himself, reaching out to gently brush over his parents’ love-struck, smiling faces. I want to be the person someone first looks for when they come home. I want to be someone’s all._

*

Stiles’ entire arm throbbed in pain as he slowly pulled himself back to full consciousness. The blood from the bite Peter had given him had apparently finally clotted, though that meant that the long sleeves of his button-up clung to the skin of his arm in a wet, tacky mess. There was no way in hell that the blood would be washing out; the amber-eyed boy would have to toss it in the trash when his father wasn’t paying attention.

He stirred, distantly aware that he was sprawled over the backseat of a car. It was slowing to a stop beneath the heated flush of a cheek, and Stiles curled his free hand into the jacket that had been draped over him like a pseudo-blanket.

The world felt—

_Off._

There were no super senses that Scott was still complaining about, no getting hyper-focused on one particular thing as the world faded away around him. No popped claws or dropped fangs. No eyes to flash in warning or surprise or challenge. _Nothing_. Stiles was still… _Stiles._

The teen curled up in a tighter ball beneath the heavy press of Peter Hale’s jacket, screwing his eyes shut as he held his injured arm protectively against the curve of his chest. The disappointment was almost enough to bring tears to Stiles’ eyes if the rage hadn’t previously eclipsed it.

_It wasn’t fair._

The body in the driver’s seat shifted, movements quiet and only the soft sound of Stiles and Peter’s breathing to interrupt the silence that spread between them both. The body in front of the teen moved, and the amber-eyed boy felt a hand brush affectionately over the shorn hair atop Stiles’ head, and then the older man was gone—

Car door opening and shutting carefully, and all that was left to the teen was silence and the pain of his arm and the _normalness_ that he just couldn’t break free from. Stiles drifted, allowing his mind to go—to zone out, thoughts flitting this way and that, refusing to be caught by any particular train because that way lay madness and the teen already knew in what direction he’d wander.

A burning flared to life within Stiles’ chest, bonfire that suddenly _roared_ into existence when the misery and loneliness and _rage_ had been about to drag him under (couldn’t hold his breath any longer, the water was going to come pouring in once more), and the teen jerked upright with hand pressed to his chest as everything just came crashing over him in a tidal wave of _More_—

It wasn’t the change.

But it was _something_.

_Knowing_ without truly knowing _how_, Stiles scrambled desperately at the door handle to Peter’s stolen car, need and desperation and rage—so much fucking rage—pounding in time of the beating of the teen’s heart. He practically fell, tripping over his feet and air, from the car and frantically ran off in the direction of the surge of emotions—_knowing_, too, that it would be leading him to the Hale house.

And it was a warzone the teen stumbled into:

Peter was shifted into the monster that Stiles remembered from that night at the school, cooling body of Kate Argent at his feet even as the Alpha werewolf turned glowing, bloodlust-driven eyes towards the outskirts of the clearing that surrounded the house. He roared, and Allison and Scott shifted backwards in fright, though the crazed sound just made determination and resolve run that much more thoroughly through Chris Argent and Derek Hale. The older man tightened his hold on the gun in his hands and Derek braced himself to dart forward and stop Peter where he stood, but—

“_Stop!_”

Stiles’ scream rang through the air: he tugged on the connection that bled from him to Peter and Peter to him, collaring the feral rage that ran through the Alpha like blood. The whiskey-eyed teen used whatever this was to slam Peter bodily to the ground while the discharged bullet shot harmlessly overhead—used the same force, too, to freeze Chris, Derek, Allison, and Derek where they stood, unable to move as their eyes tracked the newcomer to the fight.

Stiles blinked, and his eyes lit with the fire that had finally sparked to life within his chest.

“…Stiles,” Peter rumbled, more beast than man, though he stilled as the teen stepped into the clearing and moved to stand before the Alpha’s still form. Stiles’ fingers buried in the ruff of fur at the werewolf’s neck, ignoring how his blood stuck to the dark pelt.

“Parley. I demand parley. I think it’s about time—don’t you, Mr. Argent?”

The Argent hunter finally shuddered to life, falling to his knees as Stiles released the power that had been holding them still—unbalanced in a multitude of ways, the older man’s eyes widened as his attention caught on the teen’s burning gaze.

“_You’re_ his Emissary??”

Peter chuckled slowly, a thundering growl that rose and fell through the air, and shifted his head just the small bit to press his nose against the bite mark he’d given Stiles—breathing deep to draw in the iron tang of blood, as well as the distinctive scent of ozone, the scent of magic at its strongest: not a wolf, but something _better_… and mate all the same.

::end::


End file.
